


Live From New York

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of violent argument, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Non-graphic description of violence, Panic Attacks, Suggestion Of Child Abuse, Suggestion of sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-12-30 03:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18307256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: Queen performs on Saturday Night Live, but the real show is backstage.Roger had anticipated a quick run-through with sound and cameras before a quiet dinner and then two songs on Saturday Night Live. Small audience, no fancy effects. Easy. Simple.Only they weren't going to be that lucky.





	1. Roger

September 25, 1982

  

Freddie was late. 

One last thing to do in America before they could go home, and Freddie was late. 

Freddie was fucking LIVING in Manhattan, and he was late. 

Roger shrugged apologetically at the cameramen who were waiting to start the tech rehearsal. He shifted his hi-hat fractionally to the right, mostly so that he wouldn't have to look at either John or Brian. He didn't really need to see them to know what their expressions would be: John's aggravated squint or the tight, worried press of Brian's lips. 

They had come straight from the Plaza to 30 Rock in a single taxi. Ratty had gone ahead with the rest of the crew, including Fred Mandel, and Roger had anticipated a quick run-through with sound and cameras before a quiet dinner and then two songs on Saturday Night Live. Small audience, no fancy effects. Easy. Simple. 

Only they weren't going to be that lucky. 

Ten minutes later, Freddie finally turned up with Phoebe bustling beside him. Roger tried to catch his eye, to get some indication of what was going on, but Freddie simply went to center stage without a word. 

"Is that what you're going to wear?" asked one of the directors, waving at the long-sleeved terrycloth dressing gown and the towel wrapped around Freddie's neck. 

"He'll change before the first number—I'll let you see the outfit if that'll help," Phoebe put in quickly. "He's not feeling one hundred percent at the moment but he'll be in fighting trim for the show, I promise." 

John's long-suffering sigh could have been heard across the room without amplification. Brian walked up to Freddie and put a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter, Fred?" he inquired, angling his head down so that Freddie would meet his eyes. 

Freddie just pointed to his throat. 

Well. That wasn't a good sign. 

"Of all the times to be on a show where we're NOT miming to tape," groused John. He was always nervous before a performance in ways that the other three never completely understood, but this time Roger saw his point. 

"He'll be fine," Roger chimed in, trying to sound cheerful. He tapped a lilting rhythm on the bell of his ride cymbal to get their attention. "'Crazy Little Thing,' guys?" 

Ratty handed Freddie his twelve-string. There was no way in hell that Freddie could play it with that big floppy robe on, but the guitar was more for show than anything else. Brian tested the strings on his acoustic. "Deacy, you ready? Let's go." 

It wasn't Roger's favourite song by a long shot, but he gave it as much flair as he could muster. Brian was going full-tilt as well, trading the acoustic for Roger's black Strat on the first solo and going back to Red Special to play the second one. 

Freddie went through the blocking without singing, occasionally saying the words in a strained voice that made Roger's own throat tighten in sympathy. John half turned his back on the proceedings, staring down at his own fingers and playing each note perfectly. It was a flawless performance and a brutal commentary on Freddie's wrecked voice all rolled into one, but that was just...Deacy. 

When the song was done and the assistant director finished giving notes to the technical crew, the band regrouped for "Under Pressure." Fred Mandel looked alarmed when Freddie stepped up to the keyboard to grab the microphone. "You sure you're up to this?" he asked quietly. Freddie just rolled his eyes and strutted to his starting position. 

He wasn't up to it. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Roger signaled for the sound guys to up his mic level, then sang as robustly as he could without having Freddie turn around and fry him with a dirty look. Freddie didn't look at him at all, didn't look at any of them, just marked the song. From his vantage point on the drum riser, Roger could clearly see the tension in Freddie's neck and shoulders. 

What the hell was going on? 

Their rehearsal time ended abruptly when some of the cast needed to rehearse a skit to camera. Roger jumped off the riser only to be intercepted by Phoebe taking Freddie by the shoulders and steering him backstage. As Roger watched, a headache beginning to throb just above his eyebrows, Brian came over to him and stood closely enough for them to whisper without being overheard. 

"Rog, he looks like shit. Do you have any clue what happened?" 

"Nope." Roger sighed and massaged the aching spot on his forehead. "They've got my mic cranked up just in case. Maybe he'll tell us something when we get backstage?" 

"I don't think so," John said as he strode up to them. "We're in one dressing room, the three of us. Fred's down the hall in his own." 

"Odd," Brian said, looking absently at the light rig as if some kind of answer might be written between the bulbs. 

"Bloody fucking weird, is what it is," John muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. "There's food and tea in there, or at least what someone from New York thinks is tea. We should eat something. It's a long wait until we're on." 

"Okay," Brian said, not sounding as if he had completely processed what John was saying. 

Shaking his head, Roger said, "I'm going to get to the bottom of this, find out what's up. I'll be there in a bit." 

Why was Freddie separating himself from the band? Weird, improbable scenarios played out in Roger's mind: Freddie deciding to move to America and leave them behind, Freddie planning a surprise party to celebrate their last night in New York, Freddie having an affair with someone in the cast or on the crew. No. None of those sounded remotely realistic. 

It didn't take long for Roger to find the door with "Freddie Mercury" emblazoned on it. He knocked sharply on the door and Phoebe answered, keeping himself in the doorway so that Roger couldn't enter. "He's resting," Phoebe whispered. 

"What was he doing before he was resting?" Roger asked archly. "Gargling with broken glass?" 

"Just a little throat thing—"  
  
"That was NOT little!" 

"Ssh, keep your voice down." Phoebe patted Roger on the arm. "He'll be fine. I promise." He closed the door gently but firmly, leaving Roger standing in the corridor with his mouth still open. 

He closed it with a snap and stalked to the dressing room he was to share with John and Brian. When he came in, both men sat up straight, clearly expecting an explanation, but Roger just shrugged at them and filled up a plate with crudités. 

Leaning against one of the dressing tables, Roger said, "Phoebe wouldn't let me in. Says it's a 'throat thing,' as if we didn't fucking notice, and that Freddie would be 'fine.'"

The responses were so predictable that Roger felt as if he could have written their script. 

"It's certainly obvious that he's got a sore throat," Brian said mildly, "so it makes sense to let him rest it. If Phoebe says he'll be okay, then he'll be okay." 

John was less charitable. "Regardless of what he's got, this is a chance for us to redeem ourselves in the U.S. Our album sales haven't been good for years; we can't afford to fuck this up." 

Brian shot him an offended glare. "Freddie's well aware of how important this show is. He's not going to 'fuck this up,' as you say," he growled. 

"Not on purpose. But you heard him—he couldn't sing a note. You think that's gonna go away in the next few hours?" He looked over at Roger. "You're probably going to have to fill in a lot more than normal." 

"I've already asked them to crank me. And I've had to cover for Freddie before when he wasn't well. It's never a problem. Just like it's not a problem when we have to cover up when you make a mistake, or Brian. Just...just stay off his ass. And mine, while you're at it." He waved a celery stalk at them. "I'm going to check on him again. Deacy, I'm going to try very, very hard to forget that we had this conversation, and when I get back I don't want to revisit it." 

He didn't use that tone very often, so it was no surprise that John's eyes widened and Brian turned away, already going someplace else in his head to get away from the unpleasantness. Roger didn't stick around to see the aftermath. 

This time it was Freddie himself who answered the door. Roger hadn't got a good look at him onstage but face-to-face it was clear that Freddie was exhausted and anxious. "Roger, darling," he croaked as he took Roger by the hand and let him into the dressing room. 

There was some sort of steam contraption spewing the scent of eucalyptus into the air, and a number of teacups smelling of chamomile and honey lay half-finished on every flat surface. Freddie was still in the oversized dressing gown, with two towels draped around his throat. "Fred, when did this start?" 

"This morning. Phoebe's getting a doctor to see if there's anything else they can do for me. It's getting better. Now I can sing a few notes here and there, but I need...I need more." 

Roger felt an overwhelming need to wrap himself around Freddie and hold him close. He winced at how thin Freddie was—just that morning he'd been after Brian to eat because HE had been losing weight on this trip—and he noticed that Freddie flinched a couple of times when Roger patted him on the back. 

"Tell me what I can do, Fred," Roger said gently. 

Freddie pulled back and gave Roger a sad little smile. "Well, for starters, I need to borrow your widest wristband." 

"What? Why?"  
  
"Please." 

There was something wrong in the way Freddie seemed so small, as if he were folding in on himself. He looked diminished, his fiery personality going cold, and suddenly Roger was consumed by a horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

"Freddie—are you hurt?" 

Freddie nodded, his eyes lowered, the black lashes casting a shadow on the dark circles already under his eyes. He slowly removed the towels and dropped the shoulders of the dressing gown. 

There were bruises. 

Shocked, Roger nearly lost his balance. He reached out to run a finger along the black and blue marks that ringed Freddie's throat, as if he'd been throttled. More bruises dotted his upper arms and chest, as well as a spot on his temple. "Jesus," Roger hissed. He knew, although he wished he didn't, that Freddie was fond of rough sex, but this was far beyond any kinky play. When he reached to take Freddie's hand, he saw raw skin around his right wrist, worse than any makeup could possibly conceal, and something snapped deep inside him. 

 _Look me in the eye, boy._  
_You're making me punish you._  
_You're making me hurt you.  
__Don't you dare cry._  

"Was it Bill?" When Freddie didn't move or respond, Roger raised his voice. "Tell me! Did Bill do this to you?" 

Misery in his dark eyes, Freddie nodded once. 

"Where is he? I'll beat the living shit out of him!" 

"No!" Freddie grabbed Roger's forearms and held tightly. "I...I provoked him, it's my—" 

"Shut UP!" Roger backed away, pointing accusingly at Freddie with a trembling finger. "I don't care! I don't care what you did, or what you think you did, but you did NOT provoke him, you did NOT deserve this!"  
  
"I didn't say I deserved it," Freddie mumbled in exactly the tone that indicated he really did. 

"What the FUCK are you doing with this abusive asshole? Why do you always, ALWAYS, pick the men who'll treat you like shit? Do you get off on it? Did this...did THIS get you excited, make you want more?" 

"It wasn't like that!" Freddie exclaimed, then he started to cough. He reached for one of the half-empty teacups and drained it in one gulp that sounded painful. "It was an argument. It got out of hand. We yelled, and I woke up this morning and couldn't talk. That's all, Roger, I swear it." 

 _Of course you did it on purpose._  
_You're nothing but trouble._  
_You're nothing._  
_Nothing._  

Roger was panting. He forced himself to breathe slowly, in through his nose and out of his mouth. His hands shook and he felt cold, slimy sweat beading on his forehead. He could hear himself saying the worst possible things to Freddie, who was nearly in tears, and he sounded just like... 

No. 

"Oh, Freddie, I'm sorry. C'mere." Roger held out his arms and Freddie went to him, as trustingly as a child. Roger ran his fingers through Freddie's hair. "Yelling doesn't leave marks. It doesn't break the skin. That's something else." Gently, carefully, he kissed the bruise at Freddie's temple. "Sit down, right here, that's the way," he soothed as he led Freddie to the dressing table and lowered him into the chair. He pulled up another chair and sat opposite him, leaning forward so he could look into Freddie's pained eyes. 

"I know, Fred," he said, his own voice close to breaking. "You understand that, right?" 

Freddie nodded and reached for Roger's hand. Roger flicked a sad smile at him as he put his other hand on Freddie's knee. 

"So. Tell me everything."


	2. Freddie

Waiting in the wings was never Freddie's favourite part of a performance. Put him in front of a stadium full of people and he came alive, but those moments beforehand always left him feeling like a ball of static-filled anxiety. 

Tonight, knowing what a mess his voice had been all day, he began to understand his own lyrics about being a rocketship to Mars on a collision course. Normally he'd be in a huddle with the rest of the band, but John was angry with him, Brian was depressed and withdrawn, Fred was nice enough but not really part of their circle, and Roger...well, Roger knew too much and the loving pity in his eyes was more than Freddie could endure. 

He didn't feel worthy of anyone's pity, much less their love. 

Ratty brought him his twelve-string and helped him get it in place. Phoebe hovered behind with Dermablend and a sponge, patting setting powder gently over the concealed bruises to ensure that the makeup wouldn't come off with sweat. The red tank-top had seemed like a good choice a few days ago, but tonight it left him too exposed, too vulnerable, and for a moment he considered asking for his leather jacket. 

He couldn't play well with it on, but he couldn't play well to begin with. 

There was no time to ask for a change of clothing. The stage manager called "Places!" and they went out onto the little stage to absolute, dead silence from the two hundred or so people sitting in the audience in Studio 8H. Freddie heard Roger whisper "Go get 'em, Fred," as he took his place at centre stage. 

 _Diaphragm. Chest voice. Tall vowels to get the sound out._

His right wrist hurt where it touched the guitar, distracting him almost as much as the semi-comatose audience. He wanted to fix each individual person with a gaze and a smile, bringing them up on stage with him like acolytes, but he couldn't quite make it work. 

"She gives me hot-and-cold fever," he sang, and his voice cracked. 

 _Fuck._  

He turned just enough to see John bopping behind him, seemingly oblivious to the disaster going on around him. Or perhaps he was just such a fabulous bassist that a mere singer's ridiculous errors sailed right over his head. 

Brian swapped his acoustic for Roger's black Strat and started his first solo, giving Freddie time to accumulate some saliva to lubricate his aching throat. Brian leaned toward him, trying to make contact, but Freddie felt too ashamed to even touch such a magnificent performer.  

Worse still, he couldn't get the audience to clap along on the _a capella_ verse. God, was he that bad, that useless? Evidently he was, because he couldn't stop his voice from wobbling. He closed his eyes, wishing he could just disappear. 

"Take it, Brian," he said, almost on autopilot.

Brian wailed away on Red Special— how could he sound so good on three different guitars in as many minutes?—and Roger slid in with his perfect drumming, each strike of his sticks landing just so. 

Thank God they were willing to play for him. To save him. 

Now that he didn't have to sing, he pulled himself up straighter and tried to connect with the audience again. He sauntered over to the keyboard, mustering up a smile for Fred and bouncing up and down a little. Maybe this would loosen him up enough for a good finish, make the others not resent him for fucking up their big moment. 

It was not to be. The "shouty bits" near the end, the parts where he usually sounded Elvis-sexy, cracked worse than he could have imagined. He had to cover for it, though, and tried with grand gestures and posturing to make it look as if that sound was intentional, important to the song. He made one fatal mistake: he looked at the video monitor and saw how John's smile faded with each harsh note. 

He felt like a fraud, bowing to receive applause that surely was directed at everyone onstage except him. Why would anyone applaud him when he had been so ghastly? Why would anyone even look at him when there was Roger Taylor up there, looking like Apollo and sounding like the very wrath of God? Why would anyone listen to him when John Deacon played basslines that stirred bone marrow, or when Brian May brought pure, fiery gold into every note he struck? 

No one would want to hear Freddie Mercury, whose sole talent was fucking up. 

They were swallowed up momentarily by the bustle backstage, giving Freddie time before he had to apologise for his utter uselessness. He didn't want to have to face them, couldn't face them, not after the dog's breakfast he'd just made of his own song. His respite was short-lived, for moments later he felt the warm press of Brian's hand on the small of his back and he found himself inside the band's dressing room. 

"Don't worry, Fred," Brian said soothingly. Freddie shut his eyes and lowered his head. "Everyone has an off moment now and again. But overall, it was good - probably better than we thought it was, anyway." 

Freddie shook his head. _Why is Brian's voice so gentle when I've just let him down in front of millions of people? Why isn't he giving me the scolding I so richly deserve?_

He caught a whiff of Roger's unique after-show smell: cologne, heavy with vetiver, mixed with stage sweat. Roger's arm went around his waist. "It'll be all right. I promise." 

 _How can he make that promise when I'm just going to fuck up again?_

There was silence from John. Freddie opened his eyes to peek over at him, but John had his inscrutable expression on, grey eyes lowered, and he was busy mixing himself a drink. 

 _Probably too disappointed in me to even bother. Why would anyone bother?_

The door opened quickly and he could hear Phoebe's voice, sounding relieved. "THERE you are, Freddie! I've just made some more hot tea and we have the steamer set up for you, and some nice hot towels. Come with me, love." Phoebe took him gently by the hand and led him out of the dressing room and down the corridor to the private dressing room. "Here, change into this," he said, holding out the robe he'd been wearing earlier. "I had it on while you were up there playing, so it's nice and warm for you." 

Freddie obediently put on the robe, obediently drank the tea, and obediently leaned over the steamer and breathed in the soothing vapours. It wouldn't do any good of course, not for a rubbish singer such as himself, but if it made Phoebe feel better, then why not? 

He had no idea how long he stayed in the room. At some point he changed into a Flash t-shirt and the black leather jacket, and Phoebe kept fussing over him with makeup, but he had no interest in any of it. There was one focus in his mind and one only: _Redeem yourself._

He took one last sip of hot water with honey and lemon, smoothed his hair, and put on his performing face. The rest of the band met him in the wings. There was a boozy smell in the air—John, he could tell, had had a few drinks—and everyone seemed to be on edge. Brian had a pained, sympathetic expression. 

Oh. 

Roger, particularly, seemed unusually pale, but he smiled kindly at Freddie. "Feeling better?"  

"What did you tell them?" Freddie hissed. 

Roger took a step backward, hands in the air in a gesture of capitulation. "Just the bare minimum, that you'd had a fight with Bill and lost your voice. I didn't think the rest was anyone's business." 

 _Fuck._

"Sorry, darling," Freddie whispered. "Just a bit nervous, is all. Should I tell them the rest, later?"  
  
"Your call, Fred," Roger said as he shook out his hands to loosen them. Freddie couldn't read anything in Roger's cool blue eyes, couldn't tell just how badly he'd fucked THIS up on top of everything else. 

"We're on commercial, so places, everyone," the stage manager said, so they walked out onto the stage once more. 

Once more, the room was silent. 

Then there was one voice, a young man in the crowd. "Don't you people know who this band is, or am I the only one?" 

Freddie was pacing across the stage, but he saw Roger and John smile in the direction the voice had come from. So they had a single fan, hooray, but Freddie was about to screw up again and they'd lose even the one. 

"Three...two...one..." 

Chevy Chase appeared on the monitor, picking his nose. Was that supposed to be funny? Why was the crowd responding to that more than to the band? 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, once again...Queen." 

"Yeah!" responded their one admirer as the crowd clapped politely in response to the "Applause" sign lit up over the stage, then it was time. 

Roger's crisp percussion started them off, then John came in with his bass riff. He was bouncing, smiling a bit drunkenly at the camera as Freddie bent his knees and pulled himself together to sing. 

"Mmm num ba de..." 

 _Thick. Mucous-y. Head up, maybe it'll drain._

"Pressure, pushing down on me..." 

 _Roger's mic is turned up. Thank Christ._

"It's the terror of knowing what the world is about..." 

In the monitor, Freddie could see Brian wandering around the tiny stage. Brian hated small houses like this, claiming that people were sitting close enough to see into his soul. Freddie was beginning to understand how he felt. Every time his voice cracked (and how ironic was it that the worst crack came on the word "higher?"), every time he wasn't strong enough and Roger had to bail him out, Freddie looked down at the floor. He didn't dare make eye contact with anyone in the audience, just in case they could see his soul. His damaged, ridiculous, useless soul. 

 _Fuck it, let's just talk through the bridge._

"Turn away from it all like a blind man..." 

 _Roger should be the lead singer. Just listen to him._

"Insanity laughs, under pressure we're breaking.  
Can't we give ourselves one more chance?" 

One more chance. Freddie lifted his head and belted the next lines. 

"This is our last dance..." 

 _They'll never want me to sing with them again. What have I done? What have I done?_

"Under pressure...pressure." 

Freddie turned toward Roger to thank him and to avoid looking into the crowd, then went over to the piano to set his mic stand down. He couldn't meet Fred's gaze, much less anyone else's, and it was all he could do to chance a quick look at the audience. 

At least it's over. 

He filed backstage with the others, ready to go...somewhere. Anywhere else. Back to the flat, perhaps, to the empty bed that waited for him as if mocking him. Or, worse, Bill might be there to remind him just how insignificant he was, to let him know what a fool he'd made of himself on national television. 

Just as he thought the evening couldn't get any worse, he found himself face to face with an absolute goddess. 

Jennifer Holliday was standing there with her arms open wide to him. "Oh, I'm so excited to see you!" she cried, her eyes glistening with tears. "You're just the best!" 

"I saw you in 'Dreamgirls,'" Freddie made himself say, although he longed more than anything else to just run away. He was a fraud in the presence of true royalty, but he let himself be enveloped in her embrace, undeserving as he was. When he stepped back he pasted a smile on his face. "You're...magnificent." 

There were so many more things he wanted to tell her: how her power was simply extraordinary, how thrilled he was to see that she was getting her due as a performer, how much her show-stopping rendition of "And I Am Telling You" changed his perception of how a song could move an audience. His own misery, his sense of failure, struck him mute. All he could do was take her hand and kiss it gently. 

 _Save me, save me, save me..._

And it was Roger who did. He stepped away from Brian and John and grasped Freddie by his uninjured wrist. He tugged at him, leading him out of the stage door to where a limo waited with John and Brian already inside, gesturing for him to join them. 

"I need to get back to the flat," Freddie began, but Roger shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. 

"You're coming with us."


	3. Brian

"Cork it."

Brian couldn’t formulate a response to Roger's abrupt words as he and Freddie took their seats in the limo. The logical part of his mind understood how important it was for their troubles to remain only in their immediate circle. It was the right thing, Roger was absolutely correct; there was no other way about it.

The logical part of his mind, however, was being overridden by the emotional part, the part that needed to Ask Questions And Do Something Right Now, and that need was sending spikes of anxiety through every fibre of Brian's nervous system.

He tried to soothe himself by gauging his bandmates' moods through observation.

Freddie leaned heavily against Roger, his head lowered as if he were a chastened schoolboy. He looked smaller than Brian had ever seen him, as if he were trying to disappear into himself. Roger was sitting up straight, all senses alert, his hands tapping endless, restless rhythms on his thighs.

To Brian's right, John was turned toward the window, looking sightlessly at the streets with glassy, faraway eyes. He'd started drinking during the break between songs and was well on his way to crossing the line between lubricated and anaesthetised.

Brian was as bewildered as he'd ever been. Any one of the events of the last twenty-four hours would have been enough to disturb his equilibrium, but too many things were going on and his mind, usually so orderly and regimented, felt as if it were being rearranged by an internal vortex.

Freddie was hurt. So hurt that he had almost been unable to perform, and had certainly struggled to do anything despite herculean efforts. Not ill, not in an accident, but hurt because of and at the hands of a lover.

 _How was that possible?_  
_Why didn't I notice that something was wrong?_  
_What could I have done to prevent this disaster from happening to Freddie?_

It always came back to self-blame. Always.

When the limo pulled up to the Plaza Hotel and they stepped out, Roger led them quickly to the elevator and shepherded everyone inside. He didn't hold the door for anyone else but let it slide shut immediately so that the four of them were alone. "Who's got the tidiest room?" he asked, and everyone turned to Brian, who shrugged. He liked organisation, needed to know where his things were when he awoke in a strange place.

"All right, Brian," Roger continued, "is it okay if Freddie stays with you tonight?"

"Of course," Brian said at the same moment Freddie chimed in with "That's not going to be necessary."

"You're not going back to the flat, Freddie, that's final, and you're in no fit state to be alone." Roger's tone brooked no denial. The elevator stopped at the top floor. A uniformed security officer met them. "I called during the break," Roger said by way of explanation. He was far too good at dealing with this kind of situation, an expertise forged from his own suffering. "He won't let anyone but us up on this floor."

"Just like the Beatles," John mumbled. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Brian gave a resigned sigh as he patted his pockets to come up with the key to their suite. He opened the door and let everyone in. Predictably, Roger began pacing up and down and John headed for the minibar. Brian stood silently, his heart racing, unable to do anything but watch as Freddie half-collapsed onto the sofa.

"This is ridiculous, darling. All my things are at—"

Roger interrupted him. "Not the point, Fred. Bill has access, and he's pissed, and we don't know what he's capable of doing."

Freddie's injured wrist was sticking out of the sleeve of his leather jacket, the skin ringed with raw, red welts. Brian flinched in sympathy. "Actually, I think we DO know," he heard himself say. Bill had done this. He'd hurt Freddie. Their Freddie, Brian's Freddie.

The blood running through his veins felt sludgy and cold.

Truth be told, Brian and John only knew the barest of details. Roger hadn't told them much between the two appearances, but it was enough to make Brian's stomach roil and leave John reaching for booze. Bill hadn't just yelled at Freddie; he had physically abused him, and this wasn't the first time, not by a long shot.

Freddie tugged his sleeve down over the marks and glared balefully at Brian. "But Phoebe will be there, he'll protect me."

Roger's voice was firm. "No he isn't, and no he won't. I sent him off with Fred and the roadies to keep him safe."

"Don't be so ridiculous, darling, Bill wouldn't hurt Phoebe!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Roger barked. "You don't get it, do you? If he can't get hold of you, he's going to want to get hold of someone, anyone who reminds him of you. And that would be Phoebe. Do you want that to happen to him?"

"No!" cried Freddie. He leaned forward and put his hands over his face. "Of course not! How could you even think that?"

"We don't, of course we don't." Brian couldn't bear to see Freddie suffer. He pulled the desk chair near the sofa and placed a hand on Freddie's knee. "We just want to keep everyone safe."

Roger shot him a warning look. _Don't make me be the bad cop._ But there was something else there, a hint of the sorrow that surfaced in Roger's eyes once in a while. _  
_

"I'm so sorry." Freddie's leg was tense, shaking, and Brian felt the tremors all the way up his arm. "I just...I just..."

"Take your time, Freddie," Brian said soothingly.

Freddie nodded and raised his head. His eloquent eyes were dimmed with tears. "I don't even remember what the fight was about. We just shouted, and then he hit me, and we shouted some more."

"Christ." John, leaning against a wall, drained his glass. He was obviously trying to look unflustered, but his cheeks were bright red and his lips trembled as he spoke. "This wasn't the first time, was it?"

In the silence that followed, Brian was almost certain that he could feel his heart tearing itself to shreds.

"Freddie." Roger slipped into the space beside Freddie on the sofa. "You need to tell them."

_Please. Please tell us this only happened once. Please._

"No. It wasn't."

Brian wasn't certain if the distressed moan was his or John's as Roger helped Freddie get out of the leather jacket. The Dermablend on his arms had worn off against the lining, displaying a trail of bruises in various shades of purple and yellow, new and old. Brian's breath caught in his throat. He reached out to run a finger over some of the marks.

"We changed next to each other every night," Brian whispered. "How did I miss these?"

_Too busy with my own makeup, too concerned with myself. I let this slip by me. It's my fault.  
_

He felt something brush past him: John, rushing to the minibar to pour more whiskey into his glass. He wanted to ask for a glass of his own, something to numb the pain, but instead he held Freddie's hand and waited for the words that he knew would shatter him.

"He was always...physical. It seemed normal, really, that he'd slip up once in a while and a swat on the ass would be a little too hard, or he'd slap me to get me to shut up." Freddie's face flushed and he lowered his eyes. "Lots of men do that, you know."

Brian wanted to vomit.

"But when we were in Vancouver, he went mad, he threw bottles and glasses and punched the walls until I had to go sleep in Phoebe's room to get away from him." Miserable, Freddie curled under Roger's arm as if seeking shelter there. "I'm sorry, darlings. I'm so sorry about the show, I know I ruined it...I'm so sorry..."

"It's not about the fucking show!" Brian winced at the strident tone of his own voice. He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. "So you had a couple of bum notes, who cares? That audience was dead in the water, a waste of your time."

"Oh, God!" Freddie sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "That boy, the one who yelled—what do you think happened to him? We should send him something..."

"Were you listening to Brian at ALL?" Roger shouted, dragging Freddie back into his embrace as he rolled his eyes. Nonetheless, Brian made a mental note to have someone track the kid down and get an address, or else Freddie would give them no peace for a month.

Not that he was particularly peaceful now. "I don't want to talk about it anymore," he muttered truculently, pushing against Roger's chest.

Always stronger than he appeared, Roger held him fast until the wriggling stopped. "I told Phoebe to get some security for your building before either of you even considers going back there. And there's one more thing, Freddie. C'mon, look at me." He lifted Freddie's chin. "You need to get a restraining order on him. First thing in the morning."

Freddie's face went pale. "Will I have to go to the police?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Freddie, but they'll need to take photographs."

The slender thread holding Brian's composure together began to fray. The thought of Freddie being examined, being catalogued, made bile rise in his throat.

Shrinking back, Freddie shook his head. "Oh, no. No, I can't do that." He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth. "It'll get out. People will know."

"It's not a reflection on you," Brian said earnestly, "it's about him being an abusive, dangerous man who shouldn't be allowed out in the world."

Laughter bubbled from Freddie's lips, but it was cold and mirthless. "It is a reflection on me, though, don't you understand? 'Freddie can't keep a lover happy.' 'Freddie's a worthless piece of shit who doesn't deserve a man's love.' That's what people will think of me! If this gets out, no one will ever love me again!"

_Oh, God.  
_

"Freddie," Brian whispered around the lump in his throat, "that's not love."

"Oh, fuck you, what do you know about it? When did you ever, EVER lack for love? When did you—with your legs and your hair and your cock and your sad songs—ever have to get slapped around a little because no one could love you otherwise?"

"That's not how it's supposed to be, that's not normal!" Brian regretted the last word the moment it escaped his lips. Freddie narrowed his eyes at him.

"Nothing about me is 'normal.' I'm fucked up from head to foot. I'm thirty-six. I’m halfway through my life, if I'm lucky, and this might be the way the rest of it goes. It just might be all that I deserve."

"STOP IT!"

The shout, high-pitched and agonised, came from John. Brian had forgotten he was even in the room, but now he turned and saw that John was shaking violently from head to toe. The tumbler dropped from his fingers and landed with a thud on the carpet at his feet, a spray of amber liquid sending the aroma of whiskey through the room.

Brian stumbled to his feet and wrapped his arms around John. "Take it easy," he said quietly into his ear. "He's already upset; we don't want it to get any worse."

"How could it be WORSE?" John spat back. "He's getting beaten up! He could be fucking KILLED, and I don't...I don't know what to do..."

Over John's shoulder Brian could see Freddie struggling to get up. "Deacy, darling, it's all right, it's all right," he called, but Roger restrained him.

"I'm going to put him to bed," Brian told them, trying to keep his voice steady. "He's had too much to drink, that's all."  
  
"But he NEEDS me!" cried Freddie. His face was so distraught that for an instant Brian considered contradicting Roger, but in his heart he knew what he had to do.

"Bed. Now," he said firmly in John's ear as he shoved him toward his room.

As he helped John out of his clothes and into his pyjamas, he could hear Roger trying to calm Freddie down. "Let him sleep it off. He's not a kid anymore, you don't have to cut up his meat and bandage his skinned knees, he doesn't need you to hold his hand."

"I'm sorry," John mumbled thickly as he let Brian pull the covers up to his chin. "About all of it. I'm really sorry."

"As you should be. Now get some sleep and for God's sake, don't get Freddie upset any more tonight." His instinct was to hug John and tell him that everything would be fine in the morning, but that would have been an unforgivable lie. Instead, he waited a few moments until John was snoring drunkenly before making a trip to the en-suite in his own bedroom. He retrieved a bottle of paracetamol from his kit, filled a glass with water, and returned to John. He put the water and the medication on the nightstand where John would see it and tiptoed out of the room.

Roger had already taken Freddie into Brian's bedroom and given him a pair of pyjamas. As Freddie changed into them, feebly complaining about "the pants being eight ruddy miles long," Brian tried not to cry out in horror when he saw even more bruises on Freddie's legs.

"Is John okay?" Freddie asked anxiously, and Brian nodded.

"I left him something for headache, which he'll want come morning." He took Freddie's hand and led him to the bed. "If you need anything," he began, but Freddie grabbed hold of him and stared at him with wide, frightened eyes.

"Don't go, don't leave me," he breathed.

"Roger's going to stay, so I thought I'd sleep in his room."

"Please," was all that Freddie said, but Brian heard a whole world of emotions in that word. No one with a heart could deny Freddie something when he sounded so alone, so frail.

He stepped back and made quick work of changing clothes. Roger, who never bothered with anything as "fucking useless" as nightclothes, simply stripped down to his pants and climbed into the bed next to Freddie. He looked completely shattered. God only knew what Roger was re-living in his head as he took charge of a situation that was all too familiar to him. Brian knew a little of the story, courtesy of some late-night, drunken confessionals, but the true pain in Roger's heart was likely to remain a mystery.

Brian lay down on Freddie's other side, reaching over him to give Roger's head an affectionate pat. Freddie, his head resting on Roger's shoulder, twined one leg around Brian's and smiled up at him. "Good night, my darlings. You're so good to me."

"Good night, Freddie. Rog. See you in the morning."

"Fuck off, the pair of you," Roger responded with no venom whatsoever in his voice.

_If I'm destined to have a sleepless, anxious night, there are worse ways to spend it._


	4. John

It was a dark night of the soul for John. Or, rather, a bright dawn of the soul, since a sliver of sunlight was forcing its way through the curtains and onto his pillow, searing his optic nerves. John turned over in bed, the room continuing to spin for several nauseating seconds afterwards. Against his will he was now completely awake and aware of every atrocious thing he did yesterday. 

Apart from drinking himself almost to the point of liver failure, he had completely and absolutely made an ass of himself about Freddie. Every gesture, every word, everything he'd thought or said had been completely wrong, and he could not hate himself more. Even Brian couldn't reach this level of self-loathing. 

Then again, Brian wouldn't dream of behaving the way John had, booze or no booze. 

John pulled the pillow over his head to block out the stabbing light, but the angle made his head throb as if Roger were playing his entire drum set inside of it. "Fuck," John said to himself as he hauled his exhausted body upright. He glanced at the night table and smiled. God bless Brian, who apparently had left him a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the cap and poured two, three, four pills into his palm. He popped them in his mouth, took a drink of water, and leaned against the headboard. 

Just as he was beginning to launch into a self-directed tirade about being a stupid, ungrateful, selfish bastard, he heard the distinct sounds of a scuffle coming from Brian's room. The exact words were hard to hear, possibly because his head was pounding like mad, so he dragged himself out of bed and padded to the door. 

"You can't keep me from using the fucking telephone!" Freddie.  
"I can, and I will, so stop fighting me. You know I'm right." Roger.  
"Freddie, just stop and think for a moment, please." Brian. 

_Good fucking morning to us all.  
_

John made his way to Brian's room, where Freddie was jumping up in an attempt to grab the telephone that Brian was holding over his head. 

Roger stood between Brian and Freddie, wearing nothing but his pants and an exasperated expression. "He's been abusing you, you numpty. You owe him exactly zero, and there's no need to communicate with him ever again!" 

_Jesus, he wants to talk to BILL?_

Making one last desperate lunge, Freddie reached for the phone, overbalanced, and fell over onto the bed. Roger sat down beside him. "It's gotta be over now, Fred. You can't take him back. He's too dangerous. You can't ever see him again." 

"Or what?" Freddie asked, the defiance in his words belied by a tremor in his voice. "Or you'll throw me out of the band?" 

"If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then yes," Roger replied seriously, but he gently stroked Freddie's face as he said it. 

Freddie recoiled as if Roger's touch burned him. His eyes went wide and he placed both hands over his mouth, breathing so hard that his shoulders shook with the effort. "You'd...you'd LEAVE me?" he asked in a piteous tone John had never, ever heard from him. 

"Freddie, no, of course not," Roger murmured. "I'll always be here for you, band or no band, you know that." 

"No! No, you won't! You'll send me away, you'll..." His voice cracked, just as it had over and over yesterday, but this time his eyes went wide with panic. "I can't..." 

Brian swooped down and put his arms around Freddie, slowly rocking him back and forth. "Ssh, ssh, you need to breathe slowly."

"...can't..." 

"Yes, you can, just listen to me and do what I'm doing." Brian's words were calm but his face was as white as the sheets. "Open your eyes, Freddie, look at me, c'mon, you can do it." 

Carefully, Roger took one of Freddie's hands and guided it up and down the velour blanket. "Can you feel that? It's nice and soft, isn't it? Do you want me to put it around you?" When Freddie nodded, Roger gave the blanket a tug to release it from the bed and draped it over Freddie's shoulders. "Is that better?" 

Freddie nodded once, the movement lacking his usual grace. He turned around and half-fell into Roger's arms, still shuddering even when Roger clasped him tightly and ran his hands through Freddie's hair. 

When Brian changed positions to let go of Freddie, he raised his head and John caught his gaze. Brian's eyes were heavy, impossibly sad, and there were dark, swollen circles beneath them. He put a finger to his lips and pointed toward the sitting room. 

The floor felt uneven beneath John's bare feet. He waited in front of the sofa until Brian joined him and they sat down together, staring straight ahead. 

"What the hell was that?" John whispered. 

"Panic attack. He gets them, sometimes." 

"Sometimes, WHEN?" John didn't wait for an answer, didn't think he could endure it. "Why didn't I know about this?" 

Shrugging, Brian turned and tucked one long leg under himself so he could face John. "He doesn't like to upset you." 

"Yeah? How's that working out?" It wasn't funny, not really, and when they laughed it was just to release some of the tension in the air around them. "Sorry," John said, wiping his eyes. "There's just so much going on with him, and somehow it just...got past me." 

"He's very, very good at being private." Brian's voice, low and even, held a note of regret. "And I think it bothers him, how much people like us judge him." 

There was too much residual alcohol in John's system to process that very efficiently. "Like us? Straight?" 

"Not so much that." A little flush rose in Brian's cheeks. "Plain vanilla people. Sexually." 

_Oh._

John took a breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. "But he can talk to Roger...?" Brian's stern look silenced him. "Yeah. Shutting up, now." 

Brian's expression softened, becoming thoughtful. "You know, Deacy, you and I are a lot alike at heart. We're orderly people; we thrive on logic, and chaos shatters us." 

Blinking at him in surprise, John said, "That should go into a song, it's perfect." 

"I'll pass, but thank you for the compliment." Brian shook his head, curls falling in front of his face. "As much as I want to admonish you for how you reacted yesterday, the truth is that I still struggle to come to grips with some of the...stuff other people like. And sometimes it's hard for people like you and me to separate our prejudices from other, more reasonable concerns." 

"Such as?" 

"Such as wondering if Freddie's really able to take care of himself anymore." 

_Shit.  
_

"Sure, we talk all the time, but it's always about the band," continued Brian. "He thinks he can't tell any of us what's going on, so he tells Phoebe. He thinks he has to HIRE someone to listen to him. That's not right, Deacy." 

"No. It's not." He suddenly wanted a cigarette and a drink, but knew he shouldn't do either of those things. "He always listens to me. It just didn't occur to me that he doesn't tell me much." 

"We all do that," Brian agreed, sounding as ashamed as John felt. "We treat his kindness like a bank account, making withdrawal after withdrawal, but we're not so good at deposits." Chuckling, he shoved his hair out of his face and grinned ruefully at John. "Don't let me put THAT into a song, ever." 

"Wouldn't dream of it." John stood up slowly, hands on his knees, and nearly toppled over again before he felt Brian's hands steadying him. 

_He's always there for me, too. They all are. I don't deserve them.  
_

"Sounds as if Roger's got him calmed down," Brian said. "We should go in, let him know we're here for him. That always makes him feel better, just having us close." He tugged at John's wrist, smiling encouragingly. "And yes, he WILL want to see you. He loves you very much, you know that, right?" 

John swallowed his sense of unworthiness and managed to smile weakly. He let Brian lead him back into the bedroom where Roger was still holding on to Freddie in his blanket cocoon. "Oh, good, he was asking about you," Roger said. "Switch places with me?" he asked before whispering into Freddie's ear: "Deacy's here, love, he'll take care of you for a bit, would you like that?" 

When Freddie lifted his tear-streaked face to John and smiled, almost beaming in gratitude, John was certain that his heart was going to stop right then and there. Apprehensive but determined, he perched on the side of the bed and pulled Freddie into his arms, rubbing up and down the tense, knotted muscles of his back, and resting his cheek in Freddie's dark hair. "Are you okay now?" he asked. 

"Oh, much better, darling." Freddie's breath was warm against John's neck. "My voice is almost back to normal this morning. I'm so sorry I ruined the show for you."

"No, no, that's not at all what I meant," John corrected before Roger had an opportunity to growl at him. "I'm the one who's sorry, Freddie. About all of it. I was nervous before we went on, and then when we were playing, I saw it. The...bruise." He gently fingered the place where Bill had had his hands on Freddie, meaning to hurt him, to mark him, to make him feel less than he was, and the very idea made tears flood his vision. "We were playing and I saw that bruise, and I freaked out." 

Roger smiled at him and gave him a thumbs-up. "Gonna put on some clothes," he whispered as he got up and left the room, taking Brian with him. 

Freddie didn't seem to notice. He relaxed his hold on John a little, reaching up to fluff his hair. "Phoebe put ever so much coverup on me, but I was sweating dreadfully under those hot lights." He pulled away and scrubbed a hand over his face, some of last night's stage makeup flaking off in his palm. "You weren't ever meant to see me like that, warts and all. Human." 

And just like that, John broke into a million pieces. 

"You have no idea," he began, slowly, picking up speed as he went along. "I don't even think of you as human, Freddie. You're...I don't know...divine, somehow. You're everything I can't bring myself to be: demonstrative, charming, generous, all of the things I admire but can't DO." 

"Darling, that's not true, you're—" 

"No, I'm a self-absorbed bastard. And there's more. You're the reason my music has a voice. You sing my words, because I can't. You sing for everyone in the whole damn world, and...God, Fred, do you know how much we love you?" 

His internal metronome told him he'd been talking far too fast, but Freddie seemed to understand every word he said. "Oh, my dearest boy, thank you." Freddie kissed John on the cheek, sighing. "I just wish that were the kind of love I need." 

"You'll find it." How could he not, when he gave of himself so freely and generously? 

"Your eternal optimism is so refreshing." Freddie yawned and stretched. "God, I'm absolutely done in," he said, gazing meaningfully at John. "And you, my darling, look like something the cat dragged in, ate, and vomited right back up. Come have a little lie-down, the way we used to in the old days." 

As much as he loved the creature comforts that came with being a rock star, John did have a fondness for their early tours, when they stayed in disreputable motels with even more disreputable heating and piled together for warmth. Grinning, John scooted back and lay against the headboard so that Freddie could nap on his chest. 

John didn't want to sleep. There were too many things to think about, too many threads to unravel in his mind. Too many questions that would probably go unanswered. He thought about his own family, the uncomplicated way Veronica and the children fit into their respective places in his orbit, and about the far more charged atmosphere of Queen and the men he loved like brothers. 

He smiled when Roger came back in, pulling a bedraggled and exhausted Brian by the wrist. "Get in there," he instructed, lifting the covers on Freddie's other side so Brian could slide in without disturbing him. "He didn't sleep a wink last night," Roger said to John, "and if he falls over, he's too fucking tall to carry." 

"Heard that," Brian mumbled into the pillow. 

"Good." Roger settled at the foot of the bed, lying on his stomach with his head propped up on his hands. "Did you two sort yourselves?" 

"I think so," John said softly as he stroked Freddie's hair. His next breath hitched in his throat. "Can I ask you something, Rog? And if it's none of my business, you can tell me to piss off, okay?" 

"Sure." Roger gave John the full force of his attention. "What do you want to know?"

He couldn't think of a good way to phrase the question, so he asked, bluntly, "How did you know exactly what to do, about Bill?" 

Roger's face, always an open book, turned sorrowful so quickly that John reached out to touch his hand. Roger smiled a little wistfully as he replied, "I think you've figured that one out already."

He wished that he hadn't. "Was it your father?" Roger's silence was his assent. "I never knew that, either. I'm sorry. I'm pretty fucking ignorant about all of you."

"Nah," Roger said breezily. "You've just had your head up your arse a bit, is all. Not much of a view from there. All you can see is your own internal workings, your own shit." 

"I'll do better," John promised.

Roger's smile, tired but genuine, warmed his heart. "We all will," he declared. "Freddie's worth it, don't you think?" 

"I AM in the fucking room, Roger, dear," came Freddie's voice, muffled against John's heart. 

Yes, he was. _Thank God_ , John thought, holding him closer. He could feel the bed shift as Brian turned over and wrapped a long arm around Freddie's waist. Roger lay across the end of the bed like a protective Setter, guarding them all. 

"Know what would be perfect?" Freddie asked sweetly. 

"If I could get half an hour's sleep?" was Brian's grumbled response. 

"Not that, darling." Freddie turned over just enough so he could pet Brian's messy curls while remaining in John's embrace. "If just one of you could, please, turn out to be gay?" 

"I think that ship's sailed, Fred," Roger said, tweaking one of Freddie's toes. 

"Oh, well, a boy can dream." Freddie snuggled down again, yawning exaggeratedly. "Roger, can you call Miami and have him get Phoebe and me on your flight home?" 

"Already done. Now, go to sleep before Brian eats you for breakfast." 

"He's a vegetarian." 

"He's SLEEPY," Brian interjected, curling up into a tighter ball. 

Laughing, almost shaking with sheer relief, John cleared his throat. "Everyone shut the hell up and go to sleep. I'll take you to dinner tonight, okay?" 

"I made reservations for nine o'clock at Tavern on the Green," Roger told him. 

"You're a freak," John stated, nudging Roger with his foot. 

He might fuck this up a dozen more times before he got it right, but he was going to give it his all. Meanwhile, he'd let everyone doze for a while and then they'd go to dinner and make plans to keep a watchful eye on Freddie. 

There was no need to worry about television shows or comatose audiences. The only show that mattered was right here, in this room. In his arms and at his feet. Queen, bandmates and brothers. 

_Live from New York_ , John thought as drowsiness overcame him, _it's Sunday night_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Queen's performance on SNL the day after Freddie got into such a terrible argument with Bill Reid that he lost his voice. 
> 
> Roger Taylor has said that he was a victim of domestic violence but never elaborated.
> 
> Freddie did have an apartment in NYC at the time, which is where the argument took place.
> 
> Everything else is purely imaginary.
> 
> ***
> 
> With thanks to @royaltyisshe64 and @epherians for listening to me whine about how haaaaard this is to write.
> 
> ***
> 
> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


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